


Country roads

by Builder



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Flu, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Spencer Reid Whump, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 08:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13454604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Penelope gives sick Spencer a ride home.  Then stays when it's clear he's not prepared to battle the flu on his own.A continuation of Over for today, but also a stand-alone.





	Country roads

**Author's Note:**

> I've owed you guys this continuation for a long time. So sorry for the delay. Find me on Tumblr @builder051

 

“Alright, here we are,” Garcia says as she pulls into a parking spot outside Spencer’s apartment complex.  “You ok?”

 

Spencer lets out his breath slowly, blinking hard as he swallows the creeping taste of acid.  He uncrosses his arms and fumbles to release his seatbelt.  “Thanks…for the ride,” he mumbles.  “I’ll uh.  See you tomorrow.”  He opens his door and makes to stand up.

 

“Whoa, hey.”  Garcia turns off the car and leaps out, rounding the hood to cut Spencer off.  “Uh-uh.”  She shakes her head and puts her hands on her hips. 

 

Spencer’s stomach twists like a wrung-out rag.  It’s completely empty, but still bent on making him heave.  “I’m ok,” he insists.  “Just need to go upstairs.  Probably sleep…”  He wipes at the sweat on his forehead in a last-ditch effort to quell his insistent nausea. 

 

“Nope, not leaving you alone like this,” Garcia says. 

 

Spencer’s next protest is lost in a gag.  He leans forward to spit a weak stream of bile onto the pavement between his feet.  He coughs and looks up at Garcia.

 

“I’m not leaving you,” she says firmly.

 

Spencer barely has time for a resigned nod before he dry heaves again. 

 

It takes a few minutes for him to regain composure.  “I’m just going to sleep,” Spencer says hoarsely.  “You don’t need to stay.  If the team needs to get in contact with you…”  He shakes his head, ignoring the echoing ache in his sinuses.

 

“They can call my cell.”  Garcia pats Spencer’s back, then pauses.  She tentatively brings her fingers to brush his cheek.  “You are absolutely boiling.  Just going to sleep is going to make this so much worse.  Come on.  I’m in charge.”  She offers both hands, palms-up. 

 

Spencer uses her as a brace as he heaves his achy body out of the seat.  He sighs.  “Ok.”

 

“Ok.  Good.”

 

They shuffle slowly into the building.  Spencer screws his eyes shut in the elevator, dissociating himself from the discomfort of the dizzying motion.

 

“Ok?” Garcia checks in as the metal doors slide open.

 

“Mm-hm.” 

 

“Don’t lie.  I know you feel really, really gross.”

 

Spencer wraps his arms around his stomach again and starts down the hall toward his door.  “I just don’t want to vomit again…”

 

“That is such a valid point.”  Garcia takes Spencer’s keys from his trembling hand and unlocks his door.

 

“It’s not really tidy,” Spencer murmurs.

 

“That’s about the lowest thing on the list of concerns.”  Garcia follows him inside.  She sets her purse on the kitchen counter and starts opening cupboards. 

 

“What’re you…?”  Spencer’s body aches so much he can barely stand up.  He shouldn’t waste energy being curious.

 

“Getting you a drink of water and something to eat,” Garcia responds.

 

“I can’t, not yet.”  Fresh sweat beads on his upper lip.  

 

“Get yourself cleaned up and cozy first.”  Garcia finally locates a cup that’s not a coffee mug and fills it with tap water. 

 

Spencer doesn’t think he’ll be able to hold anything down.  His stomach still roils around nothing.  The need to get to the bathroom outweighs his need to reply. 

 

Spencer sheds his coat in the hallway and sinks to his knees without turning on the bathroom light.  If he brings anything up this time, which seems doubtful, he doesn’t want to see it.  His back aches as a convulsive heave moves up his spine and makes him hack into the toilet bowl. His hands and feet are icy, but his head and chest are burning.  Hair sticks to his temples.

 

The passage of time loses meaning.  Every time Spencer thinks the rebellion in his stomach has died down, another throat-tearing dry retch rises, disrupting his partially-formed thoughts and sending waves of weakness through his limbs. 

 

He lowers his cheek to the toilet seat and tries to catch his breath, but he’s too tired to do even that.  Mucous quivers in his throat, reinforcing the feeling that he’s a second from choking.  But at least if his airway closes up he won’t have to feel the sharpness of his breath coming in and out of his acid-burned mouth.

 

There’s a knock on the door.  “Reid?”

 

Right.  Garcia.  She’s here.  He should say something.  But he’s so tired.  He’s too cold to move.  Shifting an inch is going to hurt.

 

“I’m gonna open this door, ok?” 

 

The squeak of the hinges makes Spencer wince, and the dim light from the hallway hurts his eyes. 

 

“Oh my god.”  The glint of Garcia’s glasses moves through space.  Then her hands are on his shoulders and his face as she kneels beside him. “Can you sit up?”

 

Spencer tries, but he’s still hunched to protect his core.  “Sorry,” he croaks around a wet hiccup.  “I…don’t feel good.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll bet” Garcia says, her hand icy against his cheek.  “Do you have a thermometer?  I have to get a number on this fever.”

 

“No.”

 

“Of course you don’t,” Garcia sighs.  “It feels high.  You look miserable.”

 

“Hm.”  Spencer doesn’t rebut those facts.

 

“Do you feel calmed down enough to clean up a little bit?”

 

“I don’t know.”  He can barely force the words out.  He doesn’t trust his body not to try to purge again if he moves.  His head pounds.  Passing out doesn’t seem far from the realm of possibility either.

 

“Ok.  We’ll get you through this.”  Garcia grabs the hand towel off the bar and offers it to Spencer.

 

He buries his face in the rumpled fabric, feeling slightly warmer as he wipes away the perspiration on his hands and forehead. 

 

“Let’s get you set up in bed.”  Garcia pats his back. 

 

“You don’t have to…bother with me.  There’s a case…”

 

“And the rest of the team is on a plane right now,” Garcia reminds him.  “Come on.”  She pulls Spencer to his feet.

 

Spencer tries not to grunt in pain as his fevered muscles protest the movement.  For once he’s glad his apartment is so small.  It’s only a few seconds of stumbling before he reaches his bedroom. 

 

“Do you feel ok by yourself for a minute?” Garcia asks when Spencer starts to shakily unbutton his shirt.  “I’ll bring you some water.  And some meds.”

 

“Sure.”  Now that the backs of his unsteady knees are pressed against his mattress, the risk of a fall is down to nothing. 

 

“Ok.  I’ll be right back.”  Garcia’s heels click back toward the kitchen.

 

Spencer lets out a sigh that contains as much dejection as relief.  He worms his way out of his oxford and undoes his belt.  His slacks fall around his ankles, and he sits on the edge of the bed before shaking them all the way off.  Spencer’s colder in just his t-shirt and boxers.  And now that he’s seated, exhaustion filters upward, trumping his nausea and shivery aches.  He draws his feet up and collapses on his side on top of the blankets.

 

Garcia’s cold hand on his arm jolts Spencer back to awareness. 

 

“Hm?” He grunts, flipping to his back and riding out the resulting wave of vertigo. 

 

“It’s ok,” Garcia murmurs.  “It’s just me.  I brought you some water and ibuprofen.  I’m going to have to seriously stock up your medicine cabinet, though.  You’re gonna need way more than this to kick the flu.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

Garcia takes in Spencer’s shivering frame.  “Let’s get you under the covers first.” 

 

It’s a painful process to scoot upward while Garcia pulls the blankets down, but soon he’s situated between the sheets. 

 

“Alright.  Here.”  Garcia offers three small orange tablets and a glass. 

 

“I don’t know…”  Spencer grimaces, unsure whether his stomach will accept the offerings. 

 

“I’ll find a trash can next,” Garcia promises.  “But you have to try.  You have to know sitting here is making you more dehydrated by the minute.  If you puke again, at least you’ll puke up water and not your stomach lining.”

 

“You don’t actually puke up your stomach lining,” Spencer whispers hoarsely.  He tries for a wan smile.

 

“Whatever.  Come on.  Drink up.” 

 

Spencer takes the glass.  The pills feel like jagged rocks sliding down his throat, and the water does little to soothe. 

 

Garcia pointedly places the small desk trash can beside the bed, then relocates the glass to the side table.  “That go down ok?”

 

“Eh.  Ok-ish.”  Spencer knows he’s not finished with illness, not by a long shot, but for now the nausea seems to have plateaued.  “I think I’m just going to sleep.”

 

“Great idea,” Garcia says.  “You sleep.  I’ll run out for some real provisions and I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

“You don’t have to… The case…”

 

“Reid.”  Garcia shakes her head.  “We’re a team.  I really do.”

 

“…Thanks.”


End file.
